


Still Here, Still Yours

by larrinfinity



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, Reality, and possibly too much fluff and drama, and the struggles, it's pretty much their daily routine really, larry - closeted, larryos, nonsmut, reality os, though not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larrinfinity/pseuds/larrinfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“’Morning,” Lou’s voice greets him, hoarse from lack of use in these few hours of sleep, and Harry only smiles wider, if anything, to assure him.</em>
  <br/><em>The ocean of his eyes is like glass, and Harry sees the maelstrom going through his head, even before he says anything else. His fingers trail up the lines of Louis’ brows before reaching up and tangling in his hair, too. He sighs.</em>
  <br/><em>“We’ll be alright, Lou,” he croaks out, because moments like this come with a certainty that makes him feel invincible. It’s the kind of certainty he finds when he looks close enough to the one he’s sure he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and in the silence of their bedroom, no one can disturb his thoughts.</em>
  <br/><em>The starlight that reaches Louis’ eyes then is indescribable, and it makes its way to his thin lips, too. His mind seems to go blank at that very moment, because all of his focus shifts to Harry. And now he’s properly looking at him.</em>
  <br/><em>God, Harry is so gone.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[or, the one where Harry and Louis are still in the most famous boyband in the world and money still can't buy the freedom they're fighting for]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Here, Still Yours

**Author's Note:**

> So, for this one shot I decided to keep it quite realistic, so One Direction does exist, Larry is still closeted, and all of that stuff.  
> All situations in here are made up, not by a mile 100% accurate, so don't judge me on my imagination. Hope you enjoy xx

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_This is my love song to you_

_Let every woman know I’m yours_

_So you can fall asleep each night, babe_

_And know I’m dreaming of you more_

**_Safetysuit – Never Stop_ **

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

 

It takes him several seconds to adjust to the bright morning light. It seeps through the blinds and sinks into every corner Louis can’t yet reach, his mind too fogged by sleep and the remnants of last night’s drinks, only now paining his system.

It seems like useless to promise _‘no overdrinking’_ to himself, but each morning like this finds him with a hand against his throbbing forehead and inner words of encouragement that never really go right. Louis _should_ know himself more than he actually does, and he should know better than to drink his own weight on vodka and caipirinhas, although desperate situations do demand desperate measures. And, _hey_. This is how he deals with it. (That or going outside and possibly punching, possibly yelling profanities at the sea of flashes and heads he can’t catch the end of. Which would actually only make things worse).

He rolls on his stomach to try and leave the bed, but if anything, the movement only brings the nausea back up, his senses flooding with the sickening smell of an empty stomach he’s about to spill out. Surprisingly, there’s already a bucket sitting by the side of his bed, empty and awaiting, and so Louis puts it to use. It feels even worse when the acid makes its way back up, but he can’t say he isn’t familiarised, as disgusting as it sounds.

The more the minutes go by, and the more groans he lets out, the more he starts to feel like he can stand back on two feet and make his way to the toilet; so he does. What he faces in the mirror doesn’t exactly yell _success_ back at him, the dark bags under his eyes so deep he thinks he can _actually_ feel his eyes sinking into his skull. The scene is quite depressing, if he’s honest; his hair dishevelled in a way that isn’t half as adorable as usual mornings allow, but instead having bits stuck to the sweat on his forehead and the nape of his neck. His lips are chapped due dryness, and it _hurts_ when he tries to do something as simple as open his mouth to check his (awful) breath.

Back on the room, he hears his phone buzzing with messages on the nightstand and concludes it’s possibly his mother, worried already, having heard something on the news or simply checked the last of gossip on the internet. See, at least _someone_ knows Louis better than he does. She probably knows which dilemmas he’s facing now.

Ignoring the world as he chooses to do a lot lately, he turns on the tap on the shower and lets the water come down burning hot, the fog soon taking up the whole bathroom. When he’s completely stripped out of his clothes, he sinks into the smoke and the drops hit him just _right_. He feels his skin burning and turning red the more he stands there, but at least now he feels like his mind is clearing up.

It takes him _decades_ to leave the shower. He’s careful with shampooing his hair twice, rubbing every single place that’s sticky still, brushing his teeth slowly and lazily, and, mostly staring ahead of himself like the wall might come to live at any given second. It doesn’t, obviously. But he hopes, sometimes.

Stepping out, he wraps a towel around his hips and uses another to dry his hair until it’s only damp and no more dripping. The shriek he gives when walking back into the bedroom is involuntary, because the sudden change in the temperature startles him unconsciously.

He doesn’t throw over himself anything but underwear, though, because despite the goosebumps prickling on his skin, he doesn’t feel like rummaging through the sweaters lying untidily on his wardrobe. So he pointedly keeps walking, completely ignoring the several missed calls he received while on the shower – he loves his mother, he does. But he knows what’s to come, so he really won’t call her back until he’s properly sober, and the headache has completely left him.

When he walks into the kitchen, however, he’s not faced with the loneliness shitty mornings like these usually bring to him. Instead, there’s a glass of water sitting on the table and two tablets of paracetamol next to it. Harry’s steering something on the stove, sweats loose around his waist and an old, (from some band Louis seriously doesn’t know) too-large shirt on his slim figure.

He sighs at the view, going for the tablets and water before anything else, and only then slipping behind Harry to wrap an arm around his middle, burying his face into his shoulder blades and breathing in deeply, trying to make sure this is not a dream – not again – and that this very man is here, in his kitchen, making him breakfast.

“’Morning, Lou,” he croaks out, emotionless, voice still hoarse, and Louis guesses he must’ve just woken up from sleeping on the couch. He would have protested, he would, if he’d known Harry had been here all along. And the taller one probably knows that as well.

“I’m sorry, Haz,” he blurts out, face still hidden. He feels as Harry’s shoulders tense, but then they’re relaxing again, and it’s Harry’s time to sigh. It’s hopeless, he can tell. “I’m so sorry, you know I wish you didn’t have to go through this shit, and I’m so, so sorry.”

“God, just shut up Louis,” Harry says harshly, but he only half means it. The thing is, he’s tired, too. And Louis knows it. Because he must not be good with dealing with himself, – nor with fucked up situations also, apparently – but he knows Harry. He knows how to push him just _that way_ so that he won’t leave for good. Even if that means seeing him down more times than he can count.

He’s selfish when it comes to this boy, but you can’t blame him.

“Lou, please just shut up,” he’s begging this time, untangling Louis from his wait and turning off the stove so he can turn around. “It’s alr- It’s just. It’s.”

Louis nods at him like he understands, and goes to wrap his arms around the taller one again. “Someday it’ll be over, I promise you.”

“I’m just sick of it, Louis. Of always standing on the side and watching as shit goes down, having to pretend it affects only you,” his _voice_ is hopeless, and he’s so close to crying Louis’ heart breaks at the sound.

Instead of replying with words, Louis tightens his grip on his waist, nuzzles at the side of his neck and simply matches their breathing, closing his eyes just as tight as the grip until he’s got dancing spots behind his lids. Somehow Harry’s scent calms him down enough to the point he can find his tongue again.

“I know. Trust me, I know. But _you_ also know how they’ll eat my brain out if I do nothing about those gossips, and. I’ve got a family that has to suck up to media, too. You know?”

“So do I, Louis. And still I don’t give a shit about what they talk about me. It’s _my_ life. They can’t possibly know more about me than I do, and _that_ is enough.”

Louis breathes out heavily, sneaking away. “With you it’s different. It’s not as-” he stops himself mid-sentence, literally biting on his tongue, already regretting his words.

“Not as harsh?” Harry explodes. “Louis, I’m the one having seven affairs per month, apparently. I’m the one who _ladies should be careful with_. I have got to be everywhere so I can’t be with you.”

At that, Louis sits down, silent. He knows Harry’s played around like a toy by the media, by stupid people, _shit_ , by their own team, sometimes. He hates is just as much as the younger one does, too. He hates having to see him around holding hands with people he barely talks to, or having to kiss someone he does not care about one bit, without being drunk – and between those two options, Louis really doesn’t know which is worst.

But he also hates how he himself is the one to have to commit, which is just as bad as being known as a womanizer. _He_ can’t get drunk and pretend it was just a one time thing. _He_ can’t dare to make one move that might be overanalysed by the media. And this is why he’s one hundred percent sure, considering last night, that in a few hours, his face will be all over the tabloids already – if not right now.

He bites that bit down and simply agrees with Harry, admitting defeat as he reaches out for his hand and lets his forehead rest against the boy’s stomach. “I’m sorry,” he says, even quieter this time around. And it’s an apology to everything, but mostly for restraining this amazing human being just ahead of him from being who he is.

Harry’s stomach grumbles, finally acknowledging the lack of food, and he pulls Louis up to him smoothly. “Let’s have breakfast,” he states just as quietly, earning another nod as he makes his way to the pan. As an afterthought, he turns around and offers a sly smile at Louis. “Also, we were given the day off.”

Lou smiles back. “Staying in?”

“Staying in.”

As Harry shuffles to grab them both a plate, Louis reaches for Harry’s jumper thrown over a chair, all wrinkled and stained, but comfy nonetheless. At the feeling of being enveloped in such huge and candle-scented tissue, Louis sighs, gliding over to Harry again like he belongs close to his body.

“Haz?” he goes, tentative. The other boy is frowning in concentration as he finishes Louis’ tea and toast, offering only a hum as a response. Lou breathes in deep before pressing a kiss to Harry’s shoulders. “’m yours.”

He only sees a glimpse of the younger’s smile before he’s snitching out his plate and sliding into a chair, headache gone, mind free of the probable fuss waiting for him outside.

For today, they’re staying in.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_You're always hoping that we make it_

_You always want to keep my gaze_

_Well you're the only one I see love_

_And that's the one thing that won't change_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

Harry sort of blisses out for a second, spread out on the couch with a blanket covering his lower body, some shitty romcom still playing on a screen he’s not half focused on.

His lids are heavy with sleep and he’s doing his best to stay awake as he waits for Louis to come back with their dinner – if you can call it that – because he was _so not_ on the mood for cooking today.

It feels like _years_ later when a smaller figure shows up after the sound of a door locking, two bags in his hand and a misleading smell of chicken that has Harry sitting up fast. Louis nudges him with his foot so he can have a place for himself, and before he can think of, Harry’s got his hands helping Louis with placing the bags on the coffee table.

The tips of Louis’ fingers are cold when Harry brushes it lightly whilst reaching out for his food, so it’s really involuntary when he grabs his full hand and rubs on it briefly. Lou only lets out a small, incredulous laugh at that.

“Missed too much?” Louis asks, nonchalant.

Harry hums as he shuffles through the bags, looking for the sauce. “Always,” he replies, smile on his lips before he casts Louis a quick glance.

The latter rolls his eyes. “I was talking about the movie.”

Harry stops for a second, letting the information sink in. “Oh,” and then “I don’t know. Was mostly sleeping to pay it any attention.”

Louis pokes him on the rib before shoving a mouthful of fries. “You’re ridiculous. Told you to pay attention so you could tell me what I missed later.”

Already loose and slumping down again, Harry simply shrugs, tucking his feet over the couch and bringing his knees up to his chest as he takes a bite of his chicken. “You do realise we could always rent the movie later, right?” he states, frowning at the other. “Also. You don’t give a shit about romcoms, Lou.”

He’s greeted by a smile, then, just before the fries are shoved into _his_ mouth, not Louis’. Harry only manages a weak _‘Oi!’_ , and then he’s chewing on it as well, ignoring Louis’ sudden fidgeting. They eat in as much silence as possible, being _Harry &Louis_, and before long, the carpet is covered in wrapping and sauce, which Harry probably will clean out later. Always him.

As he pulls Louis closer to himself to place his arms around him, he notices his fingers tapping lightly over his own knuckles; tangling and untangling with each other. He closes his bigger hands around them to cease the movement, forcing the smaller ones closed as well, and tangled to _his_ fingers instead.

“What’s wrong?” he questions casually, chin over the top of Louis’ head and eyes shut.

Louis looks up at him warily, eyes crinkling. “What do you mean _‘what’s wrong’_? Nothing’s wrong,” he assures weakly, fingers trying to escape Harry’s as he shuffles on the couch, knees pointing up to the ceiling and feet tucked under a cushion. With each of his legs on each side of Louis’ hip, Harry squeezes him tighter, moving his head to nuzzle at the smaller man’s neck.

“Don’t lie to me, Lou,” he mumbles out, eyes closed, Lou’s scent flooding his senses. “You know your acting skills don’t work on me.”

The nervous laugh Louis lets out has no humour to it whatsoever; if anything, it sounds  _exhausted_ , and Harry can relate. He won’t let it show, however, because this boy between his arms seems suddenly tense, shoulders tight beneath Harry’s touch and breathing each time heavier.

Louis’ head hangs down as he shakes it, closing his eyes and leaning into the embrace. “Magazines all over are talking about last week. There’re possibly more pictures of me with swollen eyes and flipping everyone off than anything else.”

Harry presses a kiss to the nape of his neck and rubs soothing circles into his knuckles where he’s still trying to make his boy stop fidgeting, but it doesn’t seem to be working. He sighs. “’s alright, though. In a week it’ll be gone. It’s just a hot topic right now, you know how they are.”

Louis shakes his head again, this time more fiercely, and fully lies down on the other boys’ lap, turning slightly so his cheek is pressed to his thigh. The bags under his eyes have lightened since that night, but he still seems to have aged ten years in the past month. “That’s not only that. Apparently drunk me can’t keep his mouth shut. I must’ve talked to someone about you and now our break is ruined. It’s only a matter of hours before management hears of it and cancels our trip. I’m so sorry.”

Harry’s heart sinks to his stomach for a moment, and he tries to think of something to say that’ll not bring the other even more down. He can’t, so when he does open his mouth, it’s nothing but a whisper. “You’ve specified places?”

Louis’ silence is all the answer he needs.  He nods, too.

“We can stay at home. That’s fine,” he tells more to assure himself than anything else, but it’s no surprise when Louis’ voice cuts him out of his illusion.

“You know there’s not a chance they’ll let us,” is what he hears, at which he nods again, squeezes the other’s fingers, brushes his lips against his forehead. Louis’ breathing is tickling the inside of his thigh, warm puffs cutting through the thin layer of coverage and reaching his skin easily. “Not all the time, at least. But I’ll try to convince them.”

Harry knows this story. “Yeah,” he lets slip through his lips nonchalantly, using his nose to get Louis’ fringe out of his eyes. “I know.”

It’s silent, then. Harry’s eyes start heaving with sleep again, and all he wants to do is slip under the covers with his boy and pull the sheets over themselves until the world outside is completely shut down, so that there’s only them. He wants to press the smaller body to his and hold him there, for as long as possible, without having to crawl out of bed for at the very least a month.

He only wants, though.

Louis sighs one more time like he knows exactly what Harry’s thinking, and a second later he’s standing up, not daring to untangle his fingers from Harry’s. Instead, he uses the grip to pull the younger boy up with him, and his steps are silent on the hardwood as he tiptoes to turn off the TV and then towards their room.

He knows he’s got takeaway to clean up after, and laundry to do, but he lets Louis drag him to wherever he wants to, doesn’t object when the elder one pulls him down to the bed and opens his arms to hold Harry the same way Harry does to him.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for Lou to fall asleep, but he knows he goes first. And yet, he’s not the first to wake up.

Actually, he’s brought back to consciousness by feather-like kisses pressed all over his face and chest, and fingers threading through the mess that is his hair. There are thumbs circling the place where he knows his dimple shows when he smiles, so he does just that, weakly, as he adjusts to the morning light.

Brain already catching up to his surroundings, the first thing he actually acknowledges is the bright, bright blue that fits him with endearment and – something he’s come to know with the years – guilt. It pains him more than he can put into words, to see Louis worried and defeated like this.

He reaches his hand up to smooth the crease between his brows.

“’Morning,” Lou’s voice greets him, hoarse from lack of use in these few hours of sleep, and Harry only smiles wider, if anything, to assure him.

The ocean of his eyes is like glass, and Harry sees the maelstrom going through his head, even before he says anything else. His fingers trail up the lines of Louis’ brows before reaching up and tangling in his hair, too. He sighs.

“We’ll be alright, Lou,” he croaks out, because moments like this come with a certainty that makes him feel invincible. It’s the kind of certainty he finds when he looks close enough to the one he’s sure he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and in the silence of their bedroom, no one can disturb his thoughts.

The starlight that reaches Louis’ eyes then is indescribable, and it makes its way to his thin lips, too. His mind seems to go blank at that very moment, because all of his focus shifts to Harry. And  _now_ he’s properly looking at him.

God, Harry is so  _gone_.

He could hold his gaze for countless hours and still feel like his stomach is being turned inside out. He could spend days admiring every inch of his face and each second would bring some new discovery, one which Harry always loves more than the other. (But then again, he loves everything about Louis).

And yes, he might know more models than he can count on two hands. And yes, he might have travelled all four corners in the globe, met and seen the most astonishing people the world might have. But. Louis.

He can’t – couldn’t – look at anyone else the way he looks at him even if he wanted to. Because this very man, lying in bed with him, has him trapped in more ways than one. It’s about the combination between his bright personality and the whole appearance, but mostly it’s about the person he secretly becomes within four walls. For  _him_. And him only.

He’s blessed.

Louis ducks down to press a faint kiss to Harry’s lips, just when he’s about to say  _“I love you”;_  more than once, possibly.

When he kisses back, though, he knows he doesn’t need to. The several  _“I love you’s_ ” and  _“You’re my only’s_ ” are there.

They are all there.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_I will never stop trying_

_I will never stop watching as you leave_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

It’s annoying as shit, to say the very least.

His hands itch with the need to reach forward, claim what is his, but he  _can’t_. And it’s not moral, it’s not. He wishes it was as simple as that – since apparently half of his morals have gone to shit without him even realising. (Also, it’s not his fault, never is, but what is he to say or do?)

Instead, he clenches his hands into fists and traces the patterns of his tattoos with his fingers, focusing on them instead of the blindingly large smile Harry offers as he talks. Louis can hear it in his voice as Harry plays along to the interviewer, trying to be serious when really one word or another brings him back to conversations he’s had with Louis several times.

Louis knows when Harry’s thinking of those, because he is also. They both look elsewhere but one another.

To lighten up, he tries to crack a joke here and there. Harry usually stifles his laugh whenever Louis speaks, because even that apparently is too much fondness live. Everyone else is allowed to laugh at Louis’ fucking stupid jokes, but Harry…

Louis sighs.

Harry’s got eyes on him and every reaction is overanalysed. They are like dolls being played with, and most of the time he pushes the feeling aside, too used to it, but he knows that the topic is to come soon – if not Louis’ drunken statement on planning to travel with Harry (because Larry is a taboo topic, always), at least his many doings at the night he said so.

The answers are already on the tip of his tongue, however. There was a script he’d had to memorise when he first met the team early today.

All planned, you’d think. Pretty much.

Liam is still talking about –  _whatever,_ really –, and Zayn’s looking at Louis like he knows the turmoil the older boy’s head has going on. He feels a gentle squeeze to his kneecap then, just in case he hadn’t noted the concern in the first place.

With the peripheral of his vision Louis sees as Harry smiles slyly at Zayn, nodding a small thank you he doesn’t even mouths.

God, Louis needs the warmth of Harry’s shoulders pressing against his, even if nothing else.

“So, Louis,” he hears his name this time, and looks up to pretend he’s paying any attention to what’s being spoken. Harry keeps looking at the interviewer as all other gazes turn to the boy being directed. “Heard you had a bit too much fun last week and had to be taken home because you weren’t feeling too well. Everything alright now?”

He knows it’s her job. He knows she lives out of pushing people to their limit so they can spill out too much about their lives, and it should be  _fine_. He shouldn’t take it personally, per se, but he’s just pissed it’s always the damn same.

Louis clenches his teeth into a forced smile as he mutters a nonchalant  _‘alright, better’_  that he hopes is sceptic enough to shut all need to dig in deeper.

It isn’t.

“What exactly happened that night that got you so… pumped?” she asks, smile still on her face, and Harry’s fidgeting too. Running his hands over his hair, playing with the ring on his finger, pretending to adjust the mic pinned to his shirt.

“Drank too much, obviously. Eventful day, I’d say,” he spits out, and  _that_ seems to be enough.

The interviewer moves on with a nod, sitting straight on her loveseat and looking at the other boys. “Alright, guys. So. Break finally coming. How will you spend it?”

And  _there_. Obviously not over yet. They can’t be directly asked about Larry, but there’re no rules about implying anything. Liam is the one to jump into action.

“Just gonna head home for a while, really. Catch up on sleep, spend proper time with the family and all,” he says, and the others nod.

Louis keeps looking down as he feels someone’s gaze from outside the lenses boring holes into his skull, and he’d been told to say something specific when the topic came up.  _“Make your input about family time, girlfriend time.”_

He, however, gives zero shit about consequences now. So instead of “making his input”, he stays quiet and stares at his worn out black vans.

Not soon enough, the interview is over, and they’re being pulled out by the team to do makeup and hair, and adjust their clothes. It’s been barely a minute since Louis has gotten his breathing back to normal before there are voices scolding him for what he didn’t do, and he doesn’t hear. Just blocks his ears.

Harry is glancing at him every five seconds, and he glances back, puts on another weak smile he soon sees mirroring on his boy’s face, and then they’re being pulled apart again – completely out of the other’s view.

Separate interviews, now.

With a sigh, Louis watches as Harry and Niall are led to another room; watches him leave with the same weight over his shoulders as it always has. It keeps heaving him down, how much he has got to put up so people can’t see  _him_ , not the real one.

Another deep breath and he’s got to be good to go, so he does, biting on his lip and telling himself he’ll keep disobeying orders until the ultimate punishment comes along.

He refuses to play this game.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_I will never stop losing my breath_

_Every time I see you looking back at me_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

“I’m still holding you to that, Harold,” Louis says quietly, a cup of tea on one hand as the other slides around Harry’s middle and comes closer, chin on shoulder.

Harry huffs out in mock-annoyance. “But,  _Lewis_.”

“No buts. All sorts.”

Harry tries not to growl at the smirk he feels pressed to his right shoulder blade, turning on Louis hold and grabbing his cup to place it over the countertop. “You’re ridiculous, you know?” Harry says even quieter, coming back to press the words more into his boy’s forehead than anything. Louis grins wider. “I’m not making you that lasagne today,” he states as convincingly as he can, stare almost unfaltering.

“Oh, really?” Louis arches one eyebrow, daringly. His fierce eyes make up for the small frame; his petit features endearingly challenging. Harry wants to pepper his whole face with tiny kisses until his fake anger is gone. He does just as he wants. The effect isn’t the expected, though.

Louis pushes him away as Harry lets out a breathy laugh. “Really.”

“In this case, just you wait.”

He reaches a hand for Louis’ hips again and pulls him in against his resistance. Both of Harry’s hand clasp at his waist, head tilting slightly down to capture his lips in a kiss that starts gentle and goes much needier with just a bit of pressure. It’s almost by instinct that his larger hands unclasp and travel down, resting on the shell of Lou’s arse cheeks. He grabs a handful and tries not to laugh when the smaller one gasps half in bewilderment half in approval.

Reluctantly, Harry can tell – maybe by the sigh he lets out, or maybe by the way he keeps his eyes closed and forehead against Harry’s collarbones –, Louis pulls away again.

“None of that until you wine and dine me properly,” he states, lacking air in his lungs.

Harry feels like laughing at the complete mess of the boy against him, lips swollen and dilated pupils; so much that the blue of his eyes is barely there when he looks at Harry again. His heart still does this  _thing_ inside his chest whenever he acknowledges the effects he has over the older one.

“Your fridge has nothing but milk and your cabinets nothing but cereal, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this house today to buy you food, you arse.”

Louis snuggles up to him lazily, still smirking. “My arse is a great feature of mine, I’d agree, but I’d rather not be acknowledged by it only,” Harry totally growls at that, cupping Louis’ arse again just to go against his words. “Also. How the hell am I supposed to know what to buy when you’re the one to always do the cooking for me?”

“I thought it was common knowledge that lasagne needs more ingredients than cereal and milk.”

Louis huffs. “ _Now_ I know.”

When Lou relaxes against him, tiredness taking over after a whole week of holding his head up high at interviews, promotion trips and whatnot, shoulders slumping down and hands curling in lose fists at the bottom of Harry’s shirt, the younger one feels guilt tinging his insides. It’s moments like this that make him want to carry Louis bridal-style everywhere, so he won’t have to walk. It’s moments like this that make him promise he’ll bake as many cupcakes Louis wishes, cook whatever he feels like eating at the moment, but. Harry’s exhausted, too.

And going grocery shopping is not as simple as it should be. He’s definitely not on the mood for dodging paps and taking several turns with his car as to disguise them until he can  _finally_ come in peace to Louis’ place. It’s just  _too much_ effort.

He sighs against the top of Louis’ head, lifting one of his hands to cup the side of his face and brush a thumb over his lower lip. “Tell you what,” he says, teasingly bringing his thumb – and consequently Louis’ lower lip as well – down. “We’ll order takeaway again, and tomorrow I’ll go grocery shopping. I’ll make you a Styles special, and you’ll help me plan what to cook for your mother next weekend. In the meantime, I can make it up to you for the lasagne. Deal?”

Louis seems to consider for a second, breath even and eyelashes fanning against the exposed skin of Harry’s collarbones. The taller one feels the slight stretch of skin as Louis raises an eyebrow again, this time smugly.

Before he speaks anything, agreement or (useless) disagreement, he nuzzles against Harry’s neck and starts spreading kisses from where his forehead had been resting up to his ear, where he nips at the lobe.

“ _How?_ ” he whispers.

Harry closes his eyes and breathes in. “How what?”

“How will you make it up to me?”

He ghosts his hand over Louis’ features and pauses to cup it again, sliding his fingers over the shell of his ear and picking gently at it before letting go and touching every curve from his neck, shoulders, to the very bottom of his waist. Then, carefully, he slips his fingers past the waistband of his sweats and pants, whilst gently kissing his closed eyelids.

“ _Oh_ ,” Louis breathes a bit more heavily. “Never mind.”

Cup of tea long forgotten on the countertop, Louis glances up at Harry and launches forward to kiss him again, all traces of gentleness gone. Lou still tastes like Yorkshire and mildly of the vanilla frosting he’d been licking out of some cupcake which’d been dangerously lying on the fridge for over a week and a half.

By the flavour left on Louis’ tongue, it couldn’t have been half as bad.

When they pull apart and Harry glances down to meet what’s left of blue in Lou’s eyes, he feels the air being knocked out of his lungs. There’s lust there, obviously, just like in every simple touch of his right now; there’s intent, too. But there’s also  _love_ , so much  _love_ he feels suffocated with it.

He needs to breathe in once, twice, and yet it isn’t enough to go back to normal.

As Harry picks Louis up and waits for the boy to click his ankles behind his back, he thinks – more than that, he  _knows_  – that this tiny man will be the death of him.

And  _God,_ what a lovely way to die.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_And I will never stop holding your hand_

_I will never stop opening your door_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

The floor creaks under his weight as he tries to tiptoe towards his bed without leaving a trail of water on his way, which sounds rather impossible considering he’s _dripping_. He had been sure he’d hung the towel next to the shower just before he went in, but apparently he’s got the memory of a 70-year-old.

Or that’s what he considers until he sees his towel lying neatly folded by the foot of his bed, with his boxers and phone sitting just next to it, oh-so organized. Which, obviously, wasn’t _his_ doing.

“Harry _fucking_ Styles!” he shouts, staring at his stuff as if they’re mocking him, because that was probably Harry’s intention in the first place, anyway. That _boy_ , Louis swears…

He tries not to smile when he hears the muffled cackle coming from some room near his, and soon enough there’s a curly-haired figured standing at his doorstep with the most innocent eyes he’s come to associate with a lie. A fraud, he is. “Actually, it’s Edward, Lou.”

“You’re a fucking bastard,” he spits, reaching out for his towel and drying his limbs before his hair. Once he’s sure it’s just the right amount of damp – not enough to keep dripping – he throws the towel aside and shrinks into his underwear. “I really fucking hate you, you know that?”

The grin that threatens to split Harry’s face in half cannot be anything short of smug, his self-satisfaction so high it might start pouring out of his pores. Or something. He stands there with his arms folded over his chest and shoulders so broad Louis feels like prodding at them with his finger until he can’t take it anymore and just full on grabs it to either shove Harry away or pull him incredibly closer.

They _do not_ have time for this now.

Harry fakes a sigh, his teeth and dimple still very prominent. “You wish, Lou. You wish,” at which Louis has no response whatsoever. He ignores the temptation calling him by the door and turns around, going for the pair of trousers he knows he’s left out somewhere. “Just get ready fast, okay? Or else we’ll be late and they’ll cut our heads and wave them around like a trophy of some sort.”

Louis growls, moving his head to the side so he can take a look at Harry and complain about the _horrific_ amount of time he takes to dress himself up as well (which most of the times has nothing to do with Louis undressing him after every new piece of clothing he throws on – _absolutely nothing_ to do with that), but this time Harry’s fairly close to done.

His hair is still a proper mess, but he’s already got his black – see-through, _fucking see-through_ – shirt on, not even half buttoned; trousers just as dark as the blazer he knows he’ll be throwing over the shirt later, and his _damn,_ pathetic _boots_. He has still to get used to the fact that Harry’s actually grown and stopped wearing supras and all stars; replaced them with leopard boots, God only knows where he took it as a good idea.

Unfairly, he still looks like God himself and the worst is that he hasn’t put an ounce of work into that at _all_. Meanwhile, Louis has be growing his beard (no pun intended) for a few days now, just so he could shave in a way that would make him look manlier for the cameras.

At least he’s satisfied with _that_.

“Right,” Harry says, still smiling, possibly reading all the words going through Louis’s head since it’s been a while he’s voiced something. "I'm gonna finish myself then and grab something to eat before we leave.”

Harry doesn’t particularly wait for an answer as he turns on his heels and walks away to wherever he came from, leaving Louis to squeeze embarrassingly into his black jeans on his own. It also doesn’t take much to find his shoes, though he can’t seem to settle upon a shirt, and keeps shuffling through his wardrobe.

It takes him two more minutes of shuffling before he decides to leave his room and go to Harry’s (why they have two separate houses, and two separate rooms in each of them as if they didn’t share just one is beyond Louis’ comprehension), where he finds his boy standing in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his curls like he can’t decide which way they should be hanging.

As Louis walks by, he quickly bats Harry’s hand away to replace it with his own, completely fussing up his entire work. He’s greeted with a whine.

“That’s what you get for being a tosser. Next time we’re out for something don’t mess with my stuff,” he scolds, but there’s not even weight to it.

Harry knows as well. “I only folded your towel, Lou. Someone’s gotta take care of this household.”

“Sure,” he waves at Harry, going to mess up his wardrobe instead. “Where’s that black button-up of yours? Couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“Bed, next to your coat,” he mutters nonchalantly, doing the last fixes on his hair knowing that the rest Lou’ll take care of just before the show. Louis barely sees him coming until he plops down next to where said clothes are, closing his eyes and rubbing them with the back of his hands.

“I have got a trophy wife, sort of,” Louis muses, adjusting the buttons on his wrist. Harry glances up at him with an amused expression; one that despite casual, holds too much emotion, especially when his words come next.

“You can’t show me around,” he states, only so Louis’s heart can completely sink to his stomach.

He holds himself up as best as he can, clears his throat and mirrors Harry’s amusement. “Of course I can. Just not _conventionally_ , but it’s common knowledge that you belong to me, innit?”

Harry doesn’t reply, but Louis doesn’t think he needs to, if the way his eyes light up is anything to go by. And the thing is, it is common knowledge. Whether people believe they’re best friends or in a relationship; whether or not they’ve been more apart publicly than they used to be, they still know Harry means more to Louis than any of the other boys do, in a way.

It’s just. _Everyone_ knows.

“God, Harold. Stop looking at me like that,” he says as he tries to fight the lump on his throat, swallowing it down until it eventually goes away.

“Like I love you?”

“Like you’re a fucking creep. Is what.”

When Harry sits up again is to pull Louis by the wrist and tug him down gently, only enough so that he’s between Harry’s legs and his lips are within reach for theirs to meet on a slow kiss. Harry’s lashes flutter calmly and his eyes are glowing again, stardust in them, which always seems to take Louis’s breath away. It still does.

Then younger man’s fingers finish fixing the buttons on Louis’ wrist and then he holds onto them to stand up and drag Louis away, completely confused.

“The car is already waiting for us,” he explains on his way, shoving his phone into his pocket and taking the smaller one along with him.

Louis hushes away. “Phone and coat, I’ll be there in a sec.”

This time, he is the one who doesn’t wait for an answer, bustling into the room to pull his coat over his shoulder, then back to his to grab his phone where Harry’d left it on the bed. He should probably hang his towel somewhere to dry without smelling of mould and leave his sheets doing so as well, but then again, they are going to be late and they will have to change the sheets anyway.

They’re dirty enough already.

Louis almost trips over his own feet as he runs down the stairs and locks the door behind him, but as soon as he can muster, he’s taking the seat next to Harry’s and shuffling closer to him, squeezing his thigh gently for good measure.

The drive is fast, filled with bantering and a lot of Louis pulling Harry’s hair as well, albeit he doesn’t seem to mind much.

As they step out onto the streets, there are at least five bodyguards surrounding them and leading both into the studios, only to be met with a complaining Lou trying to adjust Niall’s hair.

Louis greets him first with a fist bump as Harry goes behind Lou to pinch her sides as a hello, and even though she seems about to explode with impatience, she still holds his gaze fondly.

It becomes the bliss that it always is, then, with someone trying to attach a mini-mic to Louis’ coat at the same time as someone is shoving a proper one into his hands along with a bottle of water and his earplugs, fingers running through his fringe that aren’t his own, and he lets them because he’s going to mess that up his own way in a few moments.

Louis doesn’t see Harry until fifteen minutes later, when all five are being shoved through a hallway towards the stage entrance, and he takes a deep breath to ground himself.

New single, he won’t screw up his solo. They rehearsed this a dozen times earlier today.

“You’ll do great, Lou,” a voice comes near his ear, followed by a short kiss to his cheekbones, and Louis possibly wants to melt.

With the hand he’s not holding his mic he grabs Harry’s gently and squeezes, brushes his fingers over Harry’s knuckles and smiles at him.

“Easy to say when you don’t royally fuck up a considerate amount of times.”

The one to hit the back of his head isn’t Harry, though. Louis glances at the side to see Zayn with the same reproachful expression he puts on whenever Louis’s self-confidence has gone to hell, and, unsurprisingly, Harry thanks him for the slap.

“You two are pathetic,” he growls under his breath, but he’s smiling.

Harry lets go of his hand, not before pressing a kiss to it, however, but suddenly the warmth is gone.

They can hear the host announcing _“One Direction”_ and the first notes starting to play.

“Alright lads, let’s smash it,” Liam encourages just before the doors open, and the stage lights and several screams fill their senses.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_I’ll never stop choosing you babe_

_I’ll never get used to you_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

There’s nervous laughter crawling its way up Harry’s throat, and it should _so_ have been gone by now.

It’s been four years since he first bumped into Louis on that blessed toilet, and yet he feels like he could burst from embarrassment more times than not. And it’s not that Louis judges him, really. It’s not.

They have been through so much together that it’s hard to do something Louis isn’t already completely familiarised with.

But it still gets him all bothered and flustered when there’s a slight amount of alcohol in his veins and Louis is so close he can’t _breathe_. Obviously, that would be lovely if they weren’t out in public with many friends around, though also many probable cameras they won’t want to capture their faces and print them into the news the morning next.

Instead of leaning more into Louis like his muscles have grown used to, like they’ve got a memory of their own, Harry pushes his glass into Louis’s hand and uses the hang to shove him away from himself before he does anything as stupid as take him then and there, rules forgotten.

He blinks twice to focus on his first idea.

“Can’t drink, Harry, love,” Louis says smoothly, ignoring Harry’s weak attempts to get air between them and pressing him further against the countertop behind his hips. “I’m the one driving tonight, remember?”

Harry nothing but snorts at that, rolling his eyes and applying slightly more force to his attempts. “I’m a better driver drunk than you are sober, Lou. Let’s not worry about that.” Also, Harry’s not even tipsy yet; not from the drinking, anyway.

He thinks he can manage going back home without a scratch, and, if Louis allow, possibly no photos of the two of them together, either.

“Lou, get off,” he nudges the smaller one on the hip, stubbornly.

“Oh, so that’s how you treat me? What a gentleman, Styles,” he teases, actually taking Harry’s glass from him, only to place it over the table.

The kitchen has no one but the two of them, even though the living room is filled to the brim with people way too touchy and windows big enough for the paps to see through, which scares Harry to death at the mere idea of having a glimpse towards where they’re standing.

Still, he inhales deeply and leans forward to capture his boy’s lips on a kiss longer than what he’d been expecting, much gentler and also a lot more teasing. He fully on groans when he pulls back.

“Louis, we are not home!” he tries to scold, hands uselessly gripping at the hem of Louis’s shirt. He’s warm and slightly sweaty, and Harry wishes they were home so that they could sneak into the shower and afterwards go straight to bed; catch up on the terrible sleep they’ve been provided with lately.

They have just arrived the party, though, hosted at God knows whose house is this. Harry has promised himself that only a couple of hours will do, and he’ll stick to it, at least.

“Sadly,” Louis reckons with a sigh, snuggling closer to Harry and fitting his head on the curvature of his neck. “We should probably get going, then.”

The younger one smiles softly at that, fully untangling from the boy who’s just holding onto him like a damn koala. It takes him several seconds of determination and a whole lot of self-control to not just give in and bury his face into Louis’s hair, but when he finally does it, he makes sure to walk the few steps to the table and retrieve his drink.

“You’re impossible, Lou,” he mutters into the rim of his glass, following the statement with a sip and another step backwards. “Two hours, okay? I’ll go hang around with Nick for a while and you go busy yourself. Do not get drunk again, though.”

Harry tries to bite back the smirk he feels tugging the corning of his lips upwards at the mention of Nick’s name and the sudden twitch of jealously that always shows on Louis’s eyes whenever he says it; the obvious displeasure tinging Harry’s insides with delight he knows shouldn’t. Needless to say Louis’s reaction is unnecessary, but it still feels nice knowing Louis would much prefer Harry having special closeness only with him.

As he turns to start walking around, Louis tugs at his wrist and pulls him back, this time guiding him to the wall where the door remains open, a bit to the side of such, so this way only who walks into the kitchen can see them.

“You ruin everything, did you know that?” Louis mumbles at him, eyes rolling to the back of his head in what Harry reckons is only half-annoyance. There’s mostly fondness there. “We weren’t meant to be in this party at all, to start with.”

Harry flicks him on the nose, leaning his head and shoulder against the wall whilst staring down at his grumpy boy. It’s exactly what he says. “Hey, don’t be so grumpy. It’s Friday and the week was exhausting. I needed some fun- we all did. Maybe go after Niall and-”

“God, shut up, curly,” Louis shushes Harry, stealing his glass for a sip of his own. “I’m not going after anyone. I am going home, going to shower, pack my stuff and get on the road.”

Harry glances funnily at Louis, eyeing him with confusion filling his irises. What’s he on about? “What are you on about, Louis?”

The shorter one lets go of Harry’s wrist and shrugs. “I was meant to make you a surprise when we got home, but apparently you’re up for partying tonight. I, on the other hand, am not on the mood. So enjoy yourself.”

Harry grips Louis this time around. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Home, as I said.”

“No, I mean. Pack? Get on the road? Where _are_ you going?”

Louis smiles softly at Harry, brushing a finger past his forehead and sneaking his fingers into his fringe. Harry automatically closes his eyes and relents into the touch, only letting it affect him for a few seconds.

“I got our break, love. No travelling abroad, but I was thinking maybe I could drive us to that bungalow-”

“Lou, you didn’t,” Harry croaks out, his smile already taking half of his face. “You _did not_ \- oh God. You _are_ impossible.”

His boyfriend smiles in victory, shrugging like he’s saying _‘I know’_. “So,” he says instead, twining his fingers with Harry’s and squeezing. “You could stay and hang out with your lovely Nick, get boozed, and get home at shit-o’clock in the morning, _or_ -”

Harry doesn’t have to think twice about it. Jesus, he doesn’t even have to think. There’s no where he’d rather be than with Louis; no thinking before acting, no having to restrain himself from being as pathetically sap as he possibly can. No worrying about people on his front door waiting for him to leave, or arrive, either, much less having to be subtle when sneaking from his house to the one he actually lives in.

Really, there’s no comparison. The words come out of his mouth without his brain catching up to it.

“Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be in the car.”

Louis smile blindingly up at him, pressing a gentle peck to his lips before nodding and walking out of the kitchen. Harry knows he won’t bother saying goodbye to everyone, so Harry’ll take care of that for them.

Fifteen minutes later, as agreed, he’s slipping past the back door and checking twice before making sure there are no cameras waiting. Nope, none. Just Louis, car parked only a few feet away.

As he rushes into the passenger seat, he feels his stomach taking several turns in excitement, his throat closing up. He can feel himself all fidgety, and _God_. Will he ever not be such a fool for Louis?

It honestly feels like he’s just sneaked out through the window and is running away from his parents to be with his prohibited lover – which is sort of the case – ignoring consequences and such.

The feeling will always be the same, he knows, and so will the answer.

He’s a fool for Louis. Always was, always will, and there’s no other choice there.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_And with this love song to you_

_It’s not a momentary phase_

_You are my life, I don’t deserve you_

_But you love me just the same_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

Harry’s eyes are closed in what he had claimed to be ‘only resting’, but Louis knows he’s already fast asleep and possibly dreaming, if the soft smile and mumbles are anything to go by.

His arms are covered by a blanket he grabbed last-minute; head resting against the window where the rain taps against, sound muted by the low buzz of a song Harry’s put on before drifting off. It’s one of those stupid playlists of his, with artists Louis has never heard of in his whole entire life, let aside enjoy, but he leaves it there nonetheless.

For Harry’s credit, some of the songs are good, and Lou might even hum along to them, sometimes.

They have been on the road for three hours now, the jammed up traffic on the main road having slowed the rhythm of the drive for an hour or so. They’re one of the only cars left now, however, so they should be getting to the bungalow – one they have discovered two years before whilst going on a car trip just for the sake of it – soon.

In the silence that Louis finds himself (more like the lack of Harry’s voice constantly singing or driving him insane – in a good way), he slips into mindless conversations with himself, debating stupid things such as the possibility of having forgotten something important, like he always does, and then realising that yes, he did, but Harry had already gotten before he even noticed there was something missing.

Other thoughts, though, are not so casual. And those are the ones that get him all bothered and with constant forming creases between his eyebrows. 

As he watches Harry from his peripheral, he wonders how in hell he got so lucky.

When this boy came into his life, all crinkly eyes and too-sincere smiles, limbs gangly and laughter always present, Louis had been on a phase where nothing was for sure, anymore. Not anything but the singing.

He had just broken up with Hannah, who he seriously thought he loved. At that point, the feeling had subsided to be replaced by sympathy, and even though he still adored her company, it wasn’t the same.

High-school was nearly over, and the idea of his future starting right there terrified him. Taking a gap year before going to college for either drama or English was an option, mostly because he hadn’t decided which he was going to do anyway. All he knew was that, suddenly, he was aging, and he would have to take bigger responsibilities with it.

The X Factor had been an escape, sort of.

Louis wanted to be a singer, he did. He enjoyed the feeling whenever he covered a song, or played the piano. It was satisfying, but he couldn’t properly see a future where he would be standing in sold-out arenas, singing to thousands of people (when the band came later, he didn’t, either, but that’s another story).

The thing is, when he auditioned, he knew there were going to be so many people much more talented than him. He tried to stay positive and think of how that audition could change his life, but he wasn’t thinking long-term effects. He simply went hoping he would get through the first audition, and so it ended up happening.

He didn’t know that before that, though, he would meet the person to change his whole entire world.

Bumping into Harry in the toilets was instantly one of the things that calmed him the most when his nerves were about to make him collapse. His mom had been trying to sooth him as they waited for his turn, but still the several hugs and kisses to the back of his head didn’t help one bit.

When he saw Harry was as nervous as him, even if he didn’t know him at all, it somehow put him at ease. None of the people on the queue had been half as nice as Harry was to him; but then, none of their smiles had hit him the way Harry’s did.

That day they didn’t talk much.

Shortly after Louis went back to his mother and went through the auditions. It was still a shock for him he actually got through, and from that point onwards, he kept thinking of the Harry guy, of what he’d though of his audition, if he had even watched it.

Louis certainly watched his, as a fact. And he had to admit, Harry was good. Also incredibly charming, at which Louis kept laughing to himself as Jay eyed him suspiciously.

Suddenly, Louis was filled with the want to move forward on the competition, and after so long he felt sure of something. It could have been the thrill of going through to the next phase, sure, but it felt like something more. It was the thrill of feeling like he had someone to impress other than his mother, someone who wouldn’t make assumptions out of their closeness, but out of pure reality. It inspired him, somehow; gave him a funny feeling he had no idea what actually was.

He knows now, obviously, but then he had no clue.

He should’ve been smarter, though; should have known that there was no way in hell it was mere coincidence they bumped into each other, amongst thousands of people huddled at one single place, and later ended up in the same band.

They clicked so fast it was ridiculous.

It didn’t take Louis more than a few months after that first encounter to realise he hadn’t had a clue of what was actually love until that moment.

With each week Harry managed to make him grow even fonder, made him fall so hopelessly that there was not a chance Louis could choose to go any other way. When he finally realised, he was trapped, completely taken by Harry’s need to constantly cuddle, and the warmth of his skin beneath his fingers had become a constant. Whether it was the texture of Harry’s hair, or his shoulders under Louis’s fingers, or even their hands brushing mindlessly.

By then, any senseless thought it might have been another phase of his was gone. It wasn’t a phase.

So much that, four years later, and it has yet to change.

Louis can’t spend long without his boy and also without completely losing his shit. Harry is a part so huge of him these days that it’s hard to remember what it even was like before Harry&Louis happened. His heart has swollen so much to fit the fondness he feels whenever he does as much as simply look at the mop of curls by his side, or those mornings when waking up beside him and being able to watch as the first threads of light slip right through the windows and Harry’s perceptions.

Sometimes Louis feels like he might literally explode with it. Harry does that to him.

And sometimes, too, he thinks it’s unfair. Because as much as Louis loves him, seems like is the same amount of power he has to hurt his boy. As time went by, their innocence vanished and it became even more clear that falling in love with your bandmate wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world.

Never in his life Louis would have imagined it would be like this, though.

He expected to face rude comments, rude actions, people turning their backs at him completely, without thinking twice. He imagined having to be subtle with Harry because society wasn’t going to accept it fully, and he totally expected to be told to tone down. But.

He didn’t expect being forced to lie so shamelessly; not simply omit, but completely offend their relationship as if it were nothing but disgusting. He surely didn’t expect to have his words so twisted, both his and Harry’s image so manipulated to the point they became disgusting in a whole other level, as long as it didn’t link them to the word ‘gay’.

Fame is disgusting, sometimes.

Harry does not deserve any of this bullshit, and Louis knows. He hates it when he catches Harry with blotchy red eyes, or even when he catches him crying in a corner. He hates it when the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen is far gone, hates it when Harry’s so pissed he can’t even bring himself to say a word.

And those days are the worst, because not only Harry’s feeling like shit, but Louis is as well, so pissed and done with the shit that people throw at him that he gets blinded enough by the rage so he can’t see Harry’s side. For these reasons, it’s no surprise serious fights have happened more than one, two, or ten times.

The funny thing, though, is that no matter how screwed up the world around them becomes, they can’t manage long without relenting on each other. The longest they have been walking on eggs with each other, the tension palpable, was a month and a half. If that.

Because the real thing is, if it’s bad as a couple, it’s twenty times worse as solos. They can’t properly function as a single piece, anymore. It’s been too long of fighting secret wars and deciding there’s no real winner, and too long of comforting each other through the years, so they have unlearned how to deal with harsh situations on their own.

They’re each other’s anchors, some might say.

“Now who’s the creepy now,” Harry’s sudden voice cuts through thin air, bringing Louis back to 5a.m. in a car at an empty, dark street, heater on and music gone.

When did he stop driving?

Harry is smirking where his head is still against the window, eyes closed and breathing even, cheeks flushed and creased from the blanket he pressed too tightly against his face at some point in the whole drive. When did they arrive?

“You’re awake,” Louis breathes out, a blank statement that’s more to himself than to Harry. His boy opens one of his eyes and smiles wider at Lou before shutting it again.

“Have been since we got here,” and, of course. Harry’s got some sort of sensor within him (if he has to guess, he would say it’s hidden in the curls, because every other part of this boy’s body he has examined fully and he can assure there’s nothing), so that every time that the pace of movement completely ceases, he startles awake. “… and for the past ten minutes you’ve been in utter silence. I can feel you burning holes into my skull.”

“’s because you’re pretty,” Louis says, tone amused even though he means it. A hundred percent.

“Flattery will take you everywhere,” Harry mumbles back, his smile so innocent and pure Louis can’t help his own forming. “Not now, though. Later, I need a bed.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans forward to brush his thumb past the marks inked to Harry’s cheeks, exhales just after he feels his boy breathing out against his touch, always so easily gone. Mindlessly, Louis traces his fingertip over the curly one’s lips, smiling softly as he does.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, only because he doesn’t. Not really.

Harry blinks his eyes open slowly, just like on mornings, and there it is. The several galaxies filled with light, and all possible stars; supernovas. He sees it and almost has to back away from how exposed he feels, from how intense Harry’s looking at him like he holds the whole entire universe and more.

His eyes are bright and warm, welcoming, with a slight reproachful tinge.

“I love you,” he whispers back, and if it was anyone else, in any other situation, Louis would have missed it by the tone so low. But it’s Harry, and he would probably listen to a whisper of his even in a crowded room with pounding music.

Harry’s gaze doesn’t falter, one second; those three words still being told again and again, through the other boy’s eyes. He looks at Louis like these words could shut up any doubt he might have about the two of them, like they are enough explanation to everything.

And maybe they are.

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

_And as the mirror says we’re older_

_I will not look the other way_

_You are my life, my love, my only_

_And that’s the one thing that won’t change_

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

Harry wakes up slowly, coming back to consciousness in slow waves as tiredness heaves over him. He keeps his eyes closed until the feeling of complete exhaustion fades, bit by bit.

His body adjusts to the light easily, since the curtains are closed and the weather outside seems to be helping. He guesses by the smell of upcoming rain that the sky is probably covered by clouds, which started pouring down by the time they arrived, but had ceased when they reached the bed.

When all of his senses catch up to his brain, he feels Louis’s arms loosely hung over his middle, breath against his neck and ankles tangled to his. It’s comfortable and usual; Harry’s lost counts of how many thousands of days they have woken up like this, and yet his heart swells with love and the need to thank God for ever putting Louis into his life.

As much as it pains him to move, giving up the perfect warmth surrounding him from head to toe, he does it, only because there’s nothing Harry loves more than watching Louis as he sleeps.

The drive had been exhausting for both of them, though Harry couldn’t feel half of the effects since by the second hour he had already passed away, only waking up to stumble over to the bedroom and sleep again.

Lou, on the other hand, was the one to drive for four hours and a half, and also the one to bring their baggage in, once Harry was busy being the lazy arse. The last memory he has of before drifting off is one of Louis throwing their bags to the side and closing the door, toeing off his shoes.

And that’s it.

It’s good, however, because having his boyfriend exhausted means he can just lie here and observe him for as long as he wishes, threading his fingers through his fringe and ghosting over his tattoos with the tip of his fingers.

Lou is chest-naked under the covers, having settled for turning the heater on rather than multiple layers of clothing, mostly because he knows Harry and he knows how to push his buttons.

Harry smiles at the thought and buries it into the crook of the elder’s neck, breathing in his scent and coming to the conclusion that Louis must have showered before going to bed the night before (earlier this morning?).

He is soft and fresh, hair wrinkled the way it gets when Lou sleeps with it wet – and oh, Harry is _so_ going to talk to Jay later just for the sake of having to watch her go on an endless rant about it with Louis, to which he’ll be infinitely annoyed and corner Harry against some wall later to have his revenge. Sounds like a plan.

Harry slides his mouth down until his need to laugh is hidden on Lou’s collarbones, where he places a gentle kiss before sighing and standing up, deciding to take a shower himself.

He can still smell the smoke on his shirt from the party he barely stayed an hour at, too eager to escape with his boy to even bother changing clothes. They’re bothering him now, so he strips them off and walks into the shower box, the water warm massaging his skin, easing the tension.

He simply _stands_ there for minutes, letting the wetness bring his hair down over his eyes, cover the room with haze until he feels like floating. Soon enough he’s forced to be grounded, when the sound of the glass box sliding open and then closed fills the silence.

Harry feels Louis’s hands push his hair away from his face before he can do it himself, and the words _‘good morning’_ that are about to slip past his lips are shushed by Louis’s themselves.

His mouth is sour and lips chapped, but Harry doesn’t mind much these days. Their morning kisses are never really long, anyway.

“Couldn’t wait ‘till I came out?” Harry muses, bringing his hand up to cup Louis’s face as he leans down and kisses him again, chastely, peppering small pecks all over his features afterwards.

Louis shakes his head as much as he can without escaping Harry’s touch. “Got a whole week with you and you only, I’m making good use of it.”

A hum is all the response Harry manages to give, pulling Louis in and against him just so they can hold each other. It stays like that for more long minutes, until Louis reaches out for the shampoo and starts pouring over Harry’s head, brushing it with his fingers over his scalp until there’s foam.

It’s Harry’s weakness, Louis knows (Louis in a whole, to be honest, but Louis messing with his hair has extreme responses), and he takes advantage of it. With the younger lad melting like jelly in his hands, Lou presses in closer, kisses the side of Harry’s ear as he keeps scrubbing,, then gently bites his lobe.

His knees nearly give in.

“Lou,” he whines, weak, still not fully awake. “Lou, please,” this time it’s louder and less shaky, but he still feels like he might burst from the touch.

As a response, Louis rinses away the shampoo and combs Harry’s hair back with his fingers, caressing more than the necessary before taking hands larger than his to sit at his hips as he starts nipping at Harry’s collarbones, pressing open-mouthed kisses and gently sucking until tiny maroon bruises start blossoming.

His hands travel the curve of Harry’s body from his neck to his hips, too, then he moves up again to apply pressure over the new marks he’s left, trailing down over his stomach, lower.

Harry sighs and leans his head back to press against the tiles, water still running down over them and filling with warmth the spaces where air fits between them. Louis kisses his jaw and shoulders as they exchange messy handjobs, finally turning off the tap after possibly more than half an hour of showering.

As Harry shakes his head to get rid of the excess of water and wraps a towel around his hips, Louis moves to stand in front of the fogged mirror, wiping it with his hands and shrinking slightly at the cold.

The taller boy comes behind him to place a chin to his shoulder and wrap both arms around Louis’s waist, spreading kisses through his shoulder blades and admiring as he analyses the bags under his own eyes.

“I look fucking dead or something,” Louis mumbles, prodding at the circles.

“You look fucking beautiful,” Harry corrects half-heartedly, still trying to focus on the real world. His eyes are glassy, he knows, and his lips are pink from so much biting on it, but it really isn’t that bad when Louis looks at him like he _knows_ it’s his doing and is damn proud of it.

The image of the two of them on the other side of the mirror is exactly that, and suddenly Harry thinks back on the x factor days when Louis would be the one standing behind him, but the glances would be the exact same.

It was much easier, then. There was a whole lot more of teasing from the other boys, too, but easier nonetheless.

Harry doesn’t let himself linger much on that thought, knowing the present is worth their struggle. It’s okay.

He smashes a kiss at Louis’s cheek before trotting back to the room. “Gonna go make our breakfast. You coming?”

All the answer Harry needs is the bathroom lights turning off and Louis moving towards him. They throw on a pair of large sweats and jumpers that are as smooth as velvet, making their way to the small kitchen.

As Harry takes care of all the cooking, Louis helps himself over the countertop, legs dangling down as they bicker around. The shorter one keeps complaining about the other’s laziness at each move, a comment at which Harry only snorts and moves even slower.

Louis then goes on a rant about how much he’d been missing Harry’s Eggs Benedict lately, and then the taller one complains _‘Louis, you’re such a whiner’_ , but does it anyway.

They end up sitting opposite each other on the table, ankles locked underneath it, and Louis stealing half of Harry’s muffing – or half of his breakfast, really. They don’t talk much besides casual threatens and blown kisses as an apologise, and it’s rather comfortable.

When Harry tries to stay back and do the dishes afterwards, Louis curls a hand at the bottom of his jumper and kisses him quiet until Harry can’t breathe; kisses him until their lips are bruised and the taste of their respective tea have become one. Louis kisses him until Harry has lost track of every thought in his mind, and then kisses him again and again until the younger one is pliant under his touch, glowing like he always does.

Harry absolutely loves this sensation, like he’s so light he could lift off the ground the moment Louis let go of him.

Needless to say, two minutes later and dishes can go to hell, because Harry’s curled up under his boy’s arms, head on his neck as he nuzzles it every now and then. The two are sprawled out on the couch, the TV on with shitty shows they keep going through without actually settling over one.

Louis suddenly stops and turns to look at Harry, slide his hand down from his shoulder to link their fingers under the blanket they have got covering themselves.

And Harry knows that look, way-too-well.

It’s the _‘you’re mine’_ look. The one that says _‘I can’t believe I got so lucky_ ’ and _‘I’m willing to spend the rest of my life with you’_ and _‘I wanna scream at the top of my lungs how much you mean to me’_.

The feeling is familiar.

And as Harry squeezes Louis’s fingers between his, he stares back with the same look, telling himself that _yes_ , he’ll spend the rest of his life with this boy, if he’s got any say on it. And _yes_ , he’s sure of it. Because there’s no other person who can make this to him, there’s never had.

And last but not least, _yes_. One day they’ll be able to scream from the top of their lungs how much they can’t see a future with an absent other (or maybe they’ll just hold hands and kiss in public, that might do, too).

One day.

But for now, Harry settles on nodding like he agrees with the words Louis didn’t say, and smiles.

“I’m still yours, y’know.”

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_You still get my heart racing_

_You still get my heart racing_

_For you…_

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**Author's Note:**

> So this is not the first time I write a one shot, but it's the first time I write it about Larry, so, compared to other works it's quite shitty, I know. Next time I'll probably do an A.U., with more of a plot and more exciting stuff. I don't know, let me know if you think I should write something else.


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